


Palace

by MezzaMorta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad catering, Blowjobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Brotherly Love, Clothing abuse, Companionable Snark, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Angst, Hair-pulling, Happy Ending, Holmes Brothers, Holmes feelings, Illicit sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mycroft IS the British Government, Rimming, Romance, Slash, Spanking, Top Mycroft, Waiter Impersonation, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 11:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14080218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Sherlock is out to rescue his big brother from a fete worth than death: the Buckingham Palace summer garden party. Luckily, he has a cunning disguise to help him coax Mycroft to break some protocols.





	1. A Fete Worse Than Death

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 3 has all the sex in it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Buckingham Palace summer garden party is the usual dry affair. Until the boredom-cavalry arrives.

It was the drawn-on moustache that really pissed off Mycroft Holmes. But, he supposed, that was probably the intention. How irritating that it worked. 

The Buckingham Palace summer garden party had been the usual dry affair. Almost literally, as the champagne ran out faster than the conversation - though these two phenomena were not unconnected. God knows he tried to be as graceful as he could muster during these appalling affairs. He had smiled politely, such as he was able, and pretended not to be devising ways of poisoning corgis without being caught.

He was required to undergo these awful human rituals once in a while, mostly to gather the kind of intelligence only court gossip could supply. But partly also to prevent being ceaselessly nagged by various members of the Establishment for being 'too aloof'. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as too aloof. Though, equally, he understood the necessity of appearing mildly clubbable.

In a world governed as much by soft power and the privilege of rank as the behind-the-scenes dirty work of information-gathering and counter-espionage, it didn't hurt to play the game occasionally. Besides, he had the luxury of relative anonymity. He was one of a small handful of guests whom everyone had heard of but nobody knew. Only a handful even knew what he looked like.

Though his existence was no official secret, he was generally considered hush-hush. People didn't ask too many questions about Mycroft Holmes for fear of attracting unwelcome attention. No-one could quite tell you what on earth Mycroft Holmes even did, but his name was a cipher for something important. It induced something of a tingle in those who heard it. Unsurprising, really, as his role had no title, no portfolio, and no precedent. If he had to put a descriptor on it, 'Fixer' would probably be the most accurate. He knew everyone's business, but no-one knew his, and that was just the way he liked it.

His despair at being forced into the open was offset by the knowledge that the head of MI6 (the real one, not the puppet who fronted the role in public) was lurking around somewhere disguised as a footman, and that the Countess of Waterlow - a genius almost comparable to himself, who played the role of disarmingly ditsy tart to perfection - would be supplying him with a list of very useful names by close of play. 

Mycroft nodded impassively as a small, pink-faced man from the Foreign Office bored him with tales from the latest diplomatic trip to Belarus, and sipped the pisspoor lukewarm chardonnay only Her Majesty's lousy catering could provide. If one sought glamour and decadence in the capital city, best not seek it in any of the Royal Households. Every place they owned was a tasteless dump; every official occasion a world-class exercise in mindless tedium and rotten hospitality. He suspected it was all a deliberate ploy designed to convince MPs to increase the Civil List.

The best parties were the ones held in the unofficial residences - the innocuous off-book private flats, the hidden country cottages, under-the-radar yachts, de-sanctified churches, abandoned crypts and derelict warehouses on old industrial estates owned by faceless billionaires. If you liked that sort of thing. He'd had his fair share of those particular gatherings, and aside from a few truly memorable and interesting encounters, he found it all so terribly gauche. Give him a night alone at home with his projector, a plate of cheese and biscuits, and a nice bottle of Chateau Latour - or an evening at the Diogenes when he was feeling particularly social - and he would be a happy (ish) man.

If enduring the idle smalltalk of assorted dullards of the realm - minor aristocratic deviants, braying politicians, beige civil servants, moronic foreign princes and bland do-gooders - were not excruciating enough, enduring the food was worthy of report to Amnesty International. He shuddered as a silver tray of limp, soggy cucumber sandwiches circulated in the crowd around him, held high on a waiter's shoulder.

From his peripheral vision he suddenly spotted something unnerving. Something wrong. Just a glimpse of a movement out of place. An uncanny sense of energy that did not belong.

The average observer at that moment would not have noticed any change in his outward bearing. He was the very embodiment of insouciance. But inwardly, Mycroft Holmes was wary and alert, and gearing himself up to pounce. His muscles tensed as he coiled himself up to spring into action if necessary. He had a well-honed sixth sense for trouble. Something was off. And it wasn't just the smoked trout vol-au-vents.

The tray of comestible horrors passed across his vision once more, spreading its ghastly offerings around his grazing peers.

What was it? Where was the problem? Then he saw it and his heart leapt. Oh, why was it always the _same_ problem?

As the platter floated under his nose, he clearly saw that it was held by a very lanky waiter with a very recognisable gait, an entirely-too-obvious curly mop of hair, and long, elegant, violinist's fingers. And a bloody make-up pencilled moustache. Just...mind-bogglingly fraudulent. Insultingly fake. Wouldn't fool a parrot. Mycroft Holmes clenched his teeth to prevent himself from making a scene. 

Sherlock had gatecrashed again. 

A spike of delighted fury rose in his chest. The boredom cavalry had arrived. He was never more pleased to see his little brother than when he disrupted some official function in a ridiculous, obvious disguise calculated to really get his goat. Not that he'd ever say as much. But Sherlock knew. Of course he knew. Sherlock knew everything about him, and he knew everything about Sherlock. Provocation and retaliation. This was the real game. The greatest game either of them had ever played. And it was afoot. 

That bloody unconvincing moustache would have annoyed him even if he didn’t know that Sherlock had already used it on John to announce his glorious resurrection. He's giving me recycled material now, thought Mycroft, rather hurt. Ah. But that was the point, wasn’t it? _See, big brother? Such contempt I have for you, I'm not even trying anymore. Come and get me._

Mycroft glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye, catching him in the act of offering the devil's own canapes to that plump, whey-faced woman from the Home Office. Sherlock's waiter act involved a lot of smarmy smiling, an excess of insincere, obsequious bowing, and plenty of incoherent Franglais thrown in. He wasn't even trying to perform the role with any conviction. He was just pantomiming it, and, annoyingly (thrillingly), getting away with it.

Fully aware of his brother's scrutiny, Sherlock turned his head and looked Mycroft straight in the eye with smug triumph. His eyebrow waggled in mock French-waiteryness, and he brushed one finger fussily at the either side of the absurd thin line on his upper lip. 

If Mycroft Holmes were a lesser man - and he wasn't - he'd have allowed himself a small chuckle at that point. As it was, he didn't even smirk, though his left eyebrow rose in customary acknowledgement of his presence. He tried very hard to maintain a facade of  _froideur_ , and, at all costs, let Sherlock know he wasn't remotely surprised to see him.

Sherlock's eyes glinted with amusement and uncanny knowingness as he absorbed his brother's attention. Mycroft's exterior signals didn't matter a jot to him. That's not what he was reading. Sherlock had never needed anything as obvious and banal as facial expression or physical gesture to tell him about Mycroft.

Sherlock was fluent in all the Mycroftian languages, particularly the subconscious ones. He could spot a deliciously furious and horny Mycroft a mile off.

He sent out a thought to his brother. 

_Fancy seeing you here._

It was caught and returned.

_Enjoying yourself?_

Sherlock pursed his lips, still camping it up Frenchly. 

_Obviously. Am I not simply ze most convincing, most servile, most Fraynch waitar you 'av ever seen?_

_No. You look like a Victorian music hall villain, you idiotic boy._

_Spoilsport. I think I look splendid, and just for that you're not getting any mini quiches off me._

Sherlock poked his tongue out and executed a series of balletic spins and dodges around the groups of nibbling dignitaries.

Mycroft took a moment to appreciate the smartness of the stolen uniform - the form-fitting black trousers, crisp white shirt with pale peach waistcoat and matching bowtie. The little black half-apron over the crotch had a certain appeal, the gap at the back emphasising the already very-well-emphasised arse of his unfairly pert younger brother. Mycroft knew for a fact that Sherlock, unlike himself, had never set foot on a treadmill, though he supposed running feral around the rooftops and back alleys of London kept him in shape. 

He stalked his little brother through the crowd, appearing only to be taking a small stroll round the garden, casting admiring glances at petunias or whatever ugly triffids were growing in the borders round the large, well-trimmed lawn.

Ahead of him, in the centre of a group of overpaid mediocre officials, he saw the poorly disguised, really  _very_ excessively French waiter deposit his tray with a baffled-looking Ukrainian diplomat, and disappear at speed into the large catering marquee that adjoined the Palace kitchens, from whence all crimes against gastronomy emanated. 

After a quick but detailed assessment of his surroundings to ascertain that nobody of any wit or skill was watching, Mycroft smoothed his hair on one side and slipped round the back of the marquee, eschewing the entrance through which legitimate serving staff were to-ing and fro-ing. Swallowing his dignity, only after he was very sure he could not be seen either from the Palace windows or the gardens, he crouched down, loosened a few tent pegs from the dry ground and raised the plasticky material up enough to duck underneath it without having to do anything as ridiculous as kneeling or crawling.

He stood up swiftly on the inside of the tent, letting the material fall behind him as he surveyed the scene.

Nobody noticed him.

He found himself behind a large set of trestle tables laid out with silver trays, stainless steel prep stations, empty glasses, mountains of napkins and cutlery canteens. Off to the right were the large, open double doors leading to the kitchens. A babble of raised voices, shouted instructions, clanking, clanging and hissing met his ears.

For a brief moment he wondered how he would pass unnoticed in pursuit of his quarry, and then cursed himself for a fool. He wouldn't. Since when did Mycroft Holmes need to justify his presence in any building in Britain, or marquee for that matter? He could just stroll in and no-one would question it. No-one would challenge him even if they did notice him, which they would of course pretend not to.

How odd that he hadn't thought to just confidently walk through the front entrance like he was meant to be there in the first place. He had long since perfected public invisibility.

Damn Sherlock for making him feel all cloak-and-dagger and get carried away. He'd just ducked under a tent, for God's sake. 

Sighing, he shook his head, straightened his posture and strolled casually in through the open doors. Nobody looked at him.

He simply moved through the huge Victorian kitchen waiting for the inevitable. He knew already he was just as much hunted as hunting. He had no need to look for Sherlock, fun though it was. Sherlock would come to him.

He stopped by a bubbling vat of something awful-smelling and pretended to take an interest in its contents. He dawdled on, as though inspecting the premises whilst harried staff in bright whites dodged round him.

As he neared the end of the main chamber, the expected hand grabbed his arm and he smirked as he let it drag him through a door hidden behind a very large stack of fruit crates. The sounds of the kitchen fell away, and he found himself shivering slightly in front of a very pleased-looking waiter-impersonator. 


	2. Cold Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion in a fridge.

"A walk-in refrigeration unit, brother mine? Really?" he drawled.

Sherlock adopted his best long-suffering tone and rolled his eyes at his brother’s lackadaisical attitude.

"Best I could do at short notice, dear. Don't moan, at least it's not the freezer."

"Why are you here?" said Mycroft, levelly.

He caught a slight flinch in Sherlock’s face. Perhaps that had sounded harsher than he intended.

Sherlock tutted impatiently. He didn't dignify such an obvious question with the very obvious answer.

Mycroft looked into his brother’s eyes, searchingly. "You're bored," he said, matter-of-factly.

" _You're_ bored," shot back Sherlock, his voice rising in irritation at the apparent neutrality.

Mycroft didn't dignify such an obvious deduction with a confirmation.  

_Bored, brother? I’m positively fossilised. A world of goldfish, didn’t I tell you?_

"Three months," said the younger Holmes, accusingly.

"Yes, I know. I've been busy," said the elder, attempting to defend himself from his brother’s implicit complaint.

_You’ve been neglecting me. And yourself._

"You're always busy."

"Indeed. So are you."

"But three months, Mycroft!" whined the badly-disguised rogue detective. “You can’t tell me you’ve been averting World War Three all this time. I’d have heard about it.” Sherlock looked down, his expression subdued. “Or maybe not. You haven’t exactly gone out of your way to call me,” he muttered.

Mycroft’s heart clenched with guilt. He had in fact been averting various international crises, but nothing more serious than usual. He’d just been more than usually exhausted by it all of late. The last three months had sped by like weeks, yet had simultaneously seemed torturously long and monotonous. He could barely remember what he’d done, except brood, and try to coast through it. All his days merged into one.

“Well, you haven’t called me! I’m sure there’s been plenty to occupy you and your little army doctor,” he slung back petulantly, then instantly regretted it.

“Don’t you dare, Mycroft!” His brother’s bright eyes flashed at him, causing a jolt in his gut.

Mycroft sighed uncomfortably. Though he thought about Sherlock constantly ( _He knew that, didn’t he? Surely?_ ), and checked up on him via his extensive monitoring system ( _best not mention that just now, it will only cause a row_ ), he had been reluctant to engage with him in person recently. He was, if truth be told, somewhat embarrassed by his current lack of energy and persistently low mood. Oh, he wasn’t truly jealous of Watson. Well, not much. Not in his rational brain. He even approved of the little bugger. He knew there was nothing like _that_ going on, and even if there were... It was just… He felt so bloody old. The job wasn’t getting any easier with age, and he was afraid his seven-year advantage on Sherlock was starting to show.

He had long since stopped enjoying his work and derived no real satisfaction from it, let alone the clandestine adrenaline rushes he used to experience when he’d pulled off some particularly complex manoeuvre. It was simply his duty now. Not that he didn’t take great pride in duty. He was adequately content in the knowledge that he was instrumental in saving lives and keeping good order. But it left him empty and unfulfilled all the same. So he had allowed himself to sink into apathy and dullness, using any spare time for sitting alone, watching films in the dark.

In truth, he had convinced himself of his utter inability to appeal to his dynamic, thrill-seeking, exciting, _younger_ brother, and so he had opted out of contact whilst he indulged his self-pity. He was, he realised, rather ashamed of himself.

Was this a mid-life crisis, he wondered fleetingly? How had he failed to notice what he’d been doing? In an act of depressive self-sabotage, he had rejected the one person who really made life worth living. He had denied himself access to the only person who breathed life into him and who had always brought colour to his monochrome world. And now here he was, shivering in front of him in a walk-in fridge.

Sherlock had gone out of his way to bring himself back to his attention, and, thankfully, hadn’t manufactured a terrifying crisis or a personal drama in order to do it. As though he knew Mycroft couldn’t cope with anything too heavy this time. He had forced his way back into his life, in the most entertaining and silly way he could think of. _Come out and play, Mycroft. Play with me! Pleeeease?_ The clever little beast.

He shook his head in awestruck realisation. This escapade wasn’t Sherlock’s cry for help. It was his. Sherlock had actually missed him. Sherlock was even now waiting for his response. He snapped back to reality.

"Yes, brother mine. Yes, it has been too long. I am…sorry," admitted Mycroft, his heart lightening with every word.

He was not too proud to tell the truth when it was necessary. Not that there was much point in lying to his brother in any case. That was part of what made their bond unique. They could be honest, or they could lie and lie, and still always know the truth from each other.

"Yes. Good."

Sherlock brightened now that the stating of the obvious was over. He glared expectantly at his older brother, waiting for the green light.

"Ideas?" offered Mycroft, feeling something like relief flood through him. 

"Lots," nodded Sherlock, perky and cocky all at once.

'At bloody last,' thought Mycroft, as anticipation began to unfurl in his gut.

_Let's make this more interesting._

"Surely not in the fridge?" he said, arching a thin eyebrow.

Sherlock smirked. He took one step closer to his brother, letting his hungry gaze roam over him, his breath ghosting between them.

Against his will, Mycroft shuddered, feeling simultaneously the pinch of cold over his skin and the spike of arousal induced by his brother's proximity. He regretted his choice of outfit. Though London in June was far from balmy, he had conceded that it was too warm to wear a waistcoat, and deferred to the season with a fine pale grey linen suit and a thin white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a very expensive navy silk cravat. His brogues set off his typically vintage theme. However elegant it had seemed in the grounds of the Palace, the ensemble now proved inadequate to the environment and he longed for his tweeds. Ah, well. It would soon prove entirely inadequate for any occasion, given Sherlock's proclivity for ruining his clothes when they met like this.

"Fridge could be fun. You'd have to work a lot harder to keep warm. Might have interesting possibilities as an experiment in body heat maintenance," said Sherlock, suggestively. 

"I think it might have unintended consequences in erection maintenance," grimaced Mycroft.

“So much for the Iceman.”

“Ah, well, so much for the Virgin.”

“Don’t be so sure. After three months I’ve practically healed over.”

“You’d better have. You know I don’t share. Are we planning on camping out here like Edmund Hillary and Captain Oates, or is there any chance of a fuck this side of Christmas?”

Sherlock snorted in spite of himself, and stepped back to give them both a chance at control. God, he loved it when his usually uptight brother got all sweary. He took great pride in being the only person on earth who could wring obscenities from him.

"Naughty. So - the Big House, then?" 

"I rather think so, brother mine. _Tout suite_ , as you damned frogs say."

Sherlock grinned at this momentary lapse of facade. Mycroft making jokes under duress. It was a rare enough occurrence but well worth witnessing when it happened. 

"Fine. Let's go. I don't know what they keep in here but it smells toxic." 

"My strong suspicion is they've been boiling corgis."

Sherlock giggled.

Mycroft huffed a small sound of amusement in spite of himself, and turned towards the heavy fridge door. As he placed his hand against it and paused to listen for an opportune moment to emerge, Sherlock suddenly pressed himself up against his back and turned his head to mouth at his left ear. 

"Nice cravat, brother," he whispered, hotly, placing one hand up to Mycroft's throat as the other wrapped round his waist.

Mycroft stilled, letting the delicious, dangerous tension filter through him. A tingle of arousal chased up his spine.

"Obliged to you, I'm sure," he drawled softly, determined not to be too drawn in.

Sherlock's sudden appearance and the revelation of his own emotional state had left him somewhat on the back foot - never his favourite position - and it did not do to be so easily thrown off balance. But, of course, that was also the point of this. It was a dance as well as a game. Sherlock pushed and pivoted and span away, while he anticipated the steps, manoeuvred round him, took his weight and led where he could.

He stayed put for a moment, delighting in the warmth of his brother's lithe body against him.

"I'll let you do  _anything_ you like with it," husked Sherlock, tugging at the cravat none too gently. Mycroft spun round to face his tormentor. Their foreheads met and their noses touched, their mouths almost meeting, so close that their tongues nearly brushed as they spoke in low, intense tones.

"How kind, but your permission is a rather inflated currency where I'm concerned. Plenty of it to go around - but is it worth anything if given so freely?" 

"If you're about to make a dreadful pun about 'spending' I will go back to serving canapés, I swear."

"I was going to say something like 'fortunately, there is enough supply to meet demand.'"

"You've stopped making sense, Mycroft."

"Possibly."

Sherlock stepped back with a small huff of frustration, a little puff of condensation emanating from him like a miffed dragon.

"Oi, I was trying to set a mood here, you dolt. Do better."

"All right," smiled Mycroft, indulgently, prepared to give ground a little. "May I say I wholeheartedly approve of the apron?"

The mercurial eyes lit up and Sherlock preened slightly.

"Thought you'd like it."

"Yes, it suits you – dressing up as staff. Perhaps you could get a part-time job and earn your keep. I always fancied having a _sommelier_ at the manor."

"No, Mycroft, you always fancied having  _me_. And I always earn my keep."

He stepped closer again, one finger just touching his chest, playing idly with the lapel of the linen jacket.

"Presumptuous."

"Oh, don't you fancy me anymore, then?" Sherlock pouted a little for effect, but for a brief second Mycroft saw a flash of doubt in his bright eyes.

"I said you were presumptuous, I didn't say you were wrong." 

He nodded curtly and grinned. "Good."

"Indeed, brother mine. And you....?” Mycroft faltered unexpectedly. “I suppose you still...?"

He floundered a little, taken aback by his own impromptu admission of insecurity. It must be the cold. Or the poisonous vapours in the air. Or the three month interval with barely any contact with the only person he loved in the world, and only imaginary tragedies for company. Something.

Sherlock looked at him with incredulous affection.

"Still….? Fancy the pants off you? Wank myself stupid about you all the time? Want to utterly wreck you and submit to your foul violations? Er, yup."

Mycroft lunged, and their mouths finally met in the kiss they’d both been desperate for.

Months of pent-up longing and frustrated need worked itself out in an animalistic clash of lips, tongues and teeth. Their hands roamed frantically all over each other as the sound of their panting breaths and suppressed moans mingled with the low thrum of the refrigeration unit.

“Christ, your arse in these trousers, ‘Lock. Jesus _fuck_ …”

Mycroft’s back hit the heavy door as Sherlock writhed against him, groaning desperately, and rubbing their mutually hard pricks against each other.

How easy it would be to just go at it here. But that would destroy other, more interesting possibilities.

Mycroft sighed internally, fighting his own light-headed desire to just rut into Sherlock until they both came in their pants, like they used to, back when there was plenty of time and nothing to work for. The urgency of getting his brother into the warm and onto a flat surface was born in on him. Time. He needed time. Time to take Sherlock to pieces in good order, to make up for the self-imposed drought.

‘One of us has to be strategic’, he thought, through a haze of want. ‘ _Quelle surprise_ , it would seem to be down to me.’

He applied slight pressure to Sherlock’s shoulders and shoved him, not unkindly, away. Sherlock took a step back, recovering his control slightly, though dazed and kiss-stained.

Mycroft cast him his best smoulder, as he noted with satisfaction that the odious moustache had been smudged almost completely off.

"Splendid. Shall we?"

"After you, dear," said Sherlock, magnanimously gesturing towards the door and bowing slightly.


	3. At Her Majesty's Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally get down to it. But first they need to find a room.

They moved swiftly into the steamy warmth of the kitchens and out into the winding corridors of the Palace.

Mycroft fought the ridiculous urge to hold his brother’s hand, and instead led the way like a man on a mission while Sherlock followed, still in waiter mode. He’d quickly snatched up a tray with a single glass of champagne on it so if any fool did stop them Mycroft could make some lofty excuse and Sherlock could remain anonymous. Just Mycroft Holmes off to find a quiet place to escape the rabble and drink his champagne.

They needn’t have bothered. Plain clothed security guards turned blind eyes. People watching monitors in brick outbuildings shrugged and resumed drinking their tea. Just Mycroft Holmes and his mad brother in disguise on some case or other. Best not to ask.

Eventually, somewhere on the third floor, Mycroft halted and opened a door, ushering Sherlock through.

Sherlock’s heart sank as he took in the sight.

A guest bedroom decked out in gold and green, a small four poster bed, a worn mahogany desk. All very charmless.

“Ugh, this isn’t very imaginative, brother. I was hoping for a boot room, or the nursery, or the actual throne room, something a bit more interesting than this.”

“There are over 700 rooms in this hellhole, 53 of them guest bedrooms, and they’re all just as ghastly as this. If we’re going to play in the Palace, I’d rather be moderately comfortable. Bed, en suite bathroom, desk. I know I could screw you in the broom closet and you’d love it, but please humour a man who is far too old to be getting his kicks like this.”

Sherlock bit at his bottom lip in mock-coyness.

“You could _what_ me?”

“Hush.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched at the corner. He divested himself his jacket and placed it over a chair.

Sherlock started to unbutton his waistcoat but halted when Mycroft held up his hand and shook his head.

“No?”

“I think not. I know you adore being naked but I think I’ll decide what comes off and when.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed, even as his cock twitched in response to Mycroft in commanding mode.

“I note you didn’t lock the door, big brother. Confident?”

“Completely. Nobody followed us. Housekeeping aren’t going to be working here at this time of day. No-one is staying on this floor. If you can believe it, security actually gets more lax the further into this wretched place you go. They throw all their efforts at the perimeter to prevent immediate ingress by undesirable elements without.”

“Never suspecting the undesirable elements within…”

“Precisely. A locked door would cause more concern if discovered anyway. If anyone were to walk in on us…”

“Screwing.”

“...thank you…they would in all likelihood be a member of the household and easily bought. In any event, they surely wouldn’t recognise you in that cunning disguise of yours…”

“Oh, ha-ha. Fine. Probability of getting caught on the low side…,” said Sherlock, with an air of disappointment.

“But not impossible, brother mine,” offered Mycroft in consolation.

Sherlock sighed. “Thanks, I suppose it’ll have to do.”

“Lock.”

The sudden gruff tone threw him.

“What?”

“Come here.”

Mycroft was staring fiercely from across the bed, piercing him through with burning intent. The décor, the unlocked door, the embarrassing ease with which they’d sauntered in here, all faded into the background. The room was suddenly full of Mycroft.

Smirking and consciously stopping his tongue from hanging out, Sherlock leant his weight onto the bed and began to slowly crawl across it on all fours, eyes fixed on his brother’s dark expression of want. A brief glance at his crotch confirmed the effect he was having. Mycroft was growing achingly hard.

When he reached him, Sherlock nuzzled into his crotch, rubbing his face against his brother’s sizeable cock, barely concealed in the thin linen slacks. Mycroft let out a deep sigh of contentment, like an addict falling off the wagon.

Why had he denied himself, denied both of them, this wondrous thing? What an idiot he'd been.

“I really am the stupid one, Sherlock,” he said, gazing down at the man teasing his clothed cock with his divine mouth.

“Unngh, yeah, I know,” Sherlock smiled beatifically up and winked. He bowed his head and set to his task once again.

Mycroft let his own head drop back, carried away on a cloud of sensation.

“Please… Please just…,” whispered Mycroft, uncharacteristically vulnerable, all thoughts of command temporarily forgotten.

Sherlock heard the desperate appeal in his voice, and kneeled back up to look into his brother’s face just as his eyes fluttered closed with desire.

With dexterous fingers he undid the trousers and slowly pushed them down his brother's long, pale thighs, and then worked his hand into the white cotton underwear, finally, finally grasping his hot, leaking prick.

Sherlock didn’t move, just held it firmly, re-establishing the intimate skin-on-skin contact they’d both missed so much.

Mycroft gasped. His mouth fell open, face flushed and perspiring.

Sherlock leaned into his brother’s neck, never loosening his grip. He turned his head and whispered lightly but fiercely into his ear, letting his breath caress the delicate shell: “You. Are. So. Fucking. Sexy.”

Mycroft’s eyes sprang open. He stared deeply into his brother’s quicksilver eyes and saw absolute sincerity.

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction, then slowly - maddeningly slowly - moved his hand, rubbing firm strokes up and down the stiff length, concentrating his efforts on the ridge between the broad shaft and thick, plummy head of his brother’s gorgeous penis. He didn’t necessarily think of penises as gorgeous. But Mycroft’s bloody was – ruddy, generously proportioned, and circumcised, like his own.

New-found confidence galvanised Mycroft to action. He thrust his hips firmly against his brother’s hand to take control of the pace. He brought his hands up to cup his brother's curly head and kissed him fervently.

Each man felt the other bodily relax as their natural dynamic reasserted itself.

Sherlock’s empty hand moved up to steady himself upon Mycroft’s back, clutching awkwardly as he continued to masturbate him.

“God, you get so wet, don’t you?” he murmured delightedly.

Without breaking the kiss, Mycroft fumbled with Sherlock’s waistcoat buttons, then gave up and just ripped them apart. Sherlock all but squealed in delight, momentarily removing his hand from his brother’s cock.

“I didn’t say stop,” chastised Mycroft, pulling his brother’s arm back into position.

Sherlock hummed in pleasure and resumed, nuzzling into Mycroft’s neck while his clothing was hastily attacked.

Mycroft yanked off the ugly clip-on bowtie in one motion, throwing it ostentatiously over his shoulder, then set upon the shirt, ripping those buttons too, with great satisfaction. When everything was dishevelled or destroyed, he pushed and pulled at Sherlock’s upper body to roughly shove the whole costume from him, as though it personally offended him. Which it did. When Sherlock’s hand was forced to briefly lose contact as he was stripped, he resumed touching as quickly as possible, now naked from the waist up.

Mycroft shucked his own shirt off, discarding it with uncharacteristic carelessness. He neglected to remove the cravat which still caressed his throat, in too much haste to feel his brother’s bare body against his own. With his trousers and pants still at half mast, he pushed at his brother’s shoulders to make him lie flat on his back on the enormous bed.

Sherlock grinned up at his dishevelled captor. He threw his hands above his head in an attitude of wanton abandon, submissively displaying his trim torso and muscular arms for his brother’s pleasure. His loosening curls, slightly damp at the fringes, spread out around him like a dark crown.

Mycroft cast a look of ferocious desire and pressed himself on top of his prey. He ground down into his brother’s thrusting groin, licking and biting at his ears, his neck, his sensitive little nipples, eliciting gasps and groans.

Patience now utterly gone, he divested himself of the trousers that were restricting his range of motion and which Sherlock was trying to kick down his legs in frustration. When he was naked from the waist down - apart from his socks and gaiters, Sherlock noted and couldn’t help but find adorable – Mycroft summarily shoved his brother over onto his front, pushed him down between his shoulder blades and straddled his legs.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed himself into the mattress, turned on beyond rational thought by this masterful display.

He felt Mycroft pull at the strings of the ridiculous little apron he’d almost forgotten he was wearing and lifted his hips to let him pull the damn thing off.

“I’m keeping this for later. You’re SO wearing it to serve me dinner when I get you home.”

Sherlock chuckled and wiggled his backside.

Taking the hint, his brother smacked it hard, and reached underneath to undo the tight trousers that clung so fetchingly. He shuffled himself backwards and yanked Sherlock’s trousers off in one swift motion, like a magician whipping a cloth off a fully set table.

The elder Homes grinned happily to himself. No pants. So predictable. _So grateful._

“Good God, brother mine. Have I told you how much I love that peachy little arse of yours?”

“Not enough.”

Mycroft rolled him back over and threw himself on top once again. They moaned wildly as their bare pricks made contact for the first time in three excruciating months and rubbed together like teenagers until Mycroft rolled himself onto his back.

Sherlock came up onto his hands and knees, looming over him, regarding him with an adoring, hungry look.

Mycroft was shiny with sweat, his sturdy pale body flushed with heat, his usually tamed hair loosening into soft baby curls. A sight to behold.

With a vulpine grin Mycroft slowly and deliberately brought one hand up and wound his fingers into Sherlock’s tousled hair, gripping and tugging at it firmly.

Sherlock let out a little gasp of delight. Just the right side of pain.

Without breaking eye contact, Mycroft pushed his brother’s head down and down, noting how the lithe body folded to adjust against the pressure, until his beautiful mouth once again met Mycroft’s bare swollen cock. Sherlock loved a bit of manhandling, and being forced down like this was a particular treat.

“You may continue,” said Mycroft, and that was all the invitation Sherlock needed to start nuzzling, licking and nibbling at the straining prick, leaking pre-ejaculate. Sherlock savoured it on his tongue.

Mycroft twitched and jerked his hips involuntarily so his cock sprang against Sherlock’s chin. Smirking to himself, the younger man slowly, agonisingly slowly, drew it into his mouth and moved down and down, until he could feel it in his throat.

 “Ooh, yessss….”          

“Hnnffgahhh”, agreed Sherlock, fucking his brother’s cock with his mouth, letting himself gag a little for effect.

Mycroft let his brother suckle at his cock, and caress and pull at his balls with gentle pressure for as long as he could stand it. He tried to keep his vocal responses to a minimum. Too soon to reward the lad with too much affirmation. He’d have to work harder than that.

Sherlock never played fair though, and sucked the head into his mouth in _just_ that way, swallowing around it repeatedly and audibly.

Obscene slurping noises and deep baritone hums filled Mycroft's ears.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man to be easily driven out of his mind, but this always gave him a shove towards the exit.

He thanked the heavens for gifting him with a little brother who was not only a natural born cocksucker, but utterly addicted to the taste of his cock.

That thought brought him perilously close to the edge.

“Wait. Wait. Up here.”

He gripped the scruff of Sherlock’s neck and urged him up.

Sherlock snorted a laugh as he looked up at his brother’s lust-dazed expression, slack and piercing at the same time. He writhed his way back up his body, nibbling and mouthing at Mycroft’s bellybutton and each nipple in turn.

“Nearly there already? That’ll teach you to leave it so long."

“Silence, fiend.”

Mycroft pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s, only partly to shut him up. They kissed and clutched each other madly. Mycroft licked all round that soft, clever, _sticky_ mouth, thrilling at the heady taste of his own semen on his brother’s tongue.

Sherlock squirmed and licked at him kittenishly as he frotted against his leg, and then began suckling on his neck.

_Time to move on._

Breathing heavily, Mycroft worked his hands down the sleek body wiggling on top of him, re-learning the dip of spine, the rib ridges, the jut of hips and swell of luscious arse. He slid two fingers down into the crack of that pert backside, questing and pressing. And… _What the…?_

He stopped short at the unexpected slick sensation on his fingers as they slipped easily into Sherlock's hole, which was decidedly not as tight as it ought to be. The little degenerate was already...ready.

"Ah, you've come prepared, I see."

"Always be prepared, Mycroft, surely you learned that one in the - where is it you work, again?"

"How, uh, long have you been like that? And where exactly did you...?"

"I found a lovely bottle of that posh olive oil you like in the...- oh - ... I suppose you'd call it a pantry."

"You lubricated yourself in the Queen's pantry?"

"Got a bit messy. Had to wipe my hand off on a Victoria sponge. I do hope someone noticed when they started handing it round."

"You didn't!"

"Did. Was that…not OK?"

"Sherlock Holmes, you are a filthy, perverted disgrace to the family name."

"I know. Horny, isn't it?"

Mycroft tried very hard not to laugh at the sheer Sherlockian audacity of it, but his silent approval was heard loud and clear. Still, no point letting the randy little libertine have it all his own way.

“It’s not quite adequate, I’m afraid,” said Mycroft, disapprovingly. Sherlock faltered slightly as Mycroft pushed him off and rose from the bed.

“Stay on all fours, you little slut.”

Sherlock blushed and did as he was told.

_Fuck, Mycroft talking dirty…_

Sherlock felt rather than saw his brother move behind him to inspect his prize close up. He felt horribly, wonderfully exposed as Mycroft’s hands pulled his cheeks firmly apart. He shivered as he felt the ghost of breath playing over his oiled, quivering pucker. He was lost in the delicious, embarrassing pleasure of it. He vaguely sensed the presence behind him pull away slightly. And then, oh, then, Mycroft spat - squarely and copiously - into his twitching arsehole.

Sherlock flinched like he’d be stung by a bee, eyebrows hitting the ceiling in shock as he felt the spit hit between his buttocks. There was a stunned silence, and then he let out a keening moan.

“Oh. My. God. _Mycroft_!”

“Like that, do we?”

Sherlock could hear the smug grin in the voice and didn’t begrudge it one bit.

“Oh my god…that’s just…fucking…”

“Revolting. _Dirty_...” crooned the cultured tones of the British Government.

“Hot! Fuck _me,_ that’s my new favourite thing. Do it again!” The very idea of his overly-sophisticated brother doing anything as uncouth as spitting, let alone spitting _there_ to lube him up for an epic fuck – in Buckingham Palace - was mind-blowing.

Mycroft grinned evilly. “Well, one can’t be too prepared, I suppose…”

He took his time, teasingly clearing his throat and leaning in to his brother’s waiting arse.

Sherlock braced himself, shaking with anticipation, so turned on he thought he might pass out. Mycroft hadn’t even bloody touched him properly and he was panting, bent over one of Her Majesty’s guest beds. What a weird life the Holmes brothers led, he reflected.

Mycroft spat again, harder and more.

“Mmm. Very nice. Nice and wet and pink. Pretty little rose…and so _open_ for me. In fact I think I shall…” 

But his words were muffled as he plunged his face into Sherlock’s backside, and tongued his arsehole for all he was worth.

Sherlock let out a silent scream and then a not-so-silent groan. _No, this is my favourite thing_ …was his last coherent thought before sensation overtook.

“ _Oh!_ God…god…god...,"he intoned, rhythmically matching the action of his brother’s questing tongue as it penetrated him deeper.

Mycroft came up for air - “Yes, I suppose I am.” – and bent to his task once more.

Sherlock frantically reached for his own neglected prick, but his hand was batted away by his ever-vigilant violator. Mycroft shook his head, sending a new jolting sensation through his arse.

Mycroft grasped his brother’s weeping hardness and, infuriatingly, just held it tightly, allowing no friction or thrusting, try as Sherlock might to encourage it.

It didn’t matter, Sherlock was too far gone, his nerve endings alive with electricity. He could come from this alone. Jesus, just thinking about it at home on his own got him halfway there. Whenever he wanked himself into a calm stupor after a stressful day or as a boredom reliever, it was this he thought about. Amongst other things to do with Mycroft. But this first. God, this. _This_.

Mycroft let himself go in the delicious, heady sensation of eating his little brother’s superbly tight arse until he was semi-delirious on the sweet taste and deep, musky smell. He was high on the soft, fleshy feel of him under his mouth. He could die like this.

_That’d be one for the Spooks’ clean-up team and the obituary writers to enjoy…_

When Mycroft sensed his brother starting to tremor more violently, his balls drawing up, almost ready to fall off the cliff edge, he pulled away.

Sherlock wailed dramatically.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard! Don’t fucking _stop_!”

“Language. That was lovely, my dear, very Mediterranean, I think I’ll get some of that posh oil for the flat.”

Sherlock whined in protest at having to endure more verbal repartee.

“Mycroft! Just do me. I could spunk myself dry right this second. Have mercy, do whatever you want, just stop bloody _talking_!”

He threw himself onto his face, spread his legs and lifted his arse, thrusting his hips against the bed.

Point taken, Mycroft supposed. Without a word, he pulled Sherlock towards him by the hips, and let his own engorged cock slip and slide tantalisingly up and down his crack. He pressed at the soft perineum with two fingers.

Sherlock bucked up and Mycroft reached out to push his head down again.

“Behave.”

Sherlock shivered and arched his back in meek compliance, presenting his open arse to his brother’s ministrations, simply mewling with impatience now.

Mycroft raised his eyes to the heavens, praying for endurance.

Thank God his brother had the foresight to loosen himself up earlier, because he didn’t have any additional lube. The combination of the remnants of olive oil, his own spit and pre-come would have to do for now _._ He pressed his forefinger in forcefully but carefully, knowing the last thing Sherlock wanted at this stage was to be treated gently. Neither of them had done this for a while, and as much as they both liked it rough on occasion, he had no intention of making this a fumbled, painful experience.

He slid it in and out for a few seconds before added a second finger, crooking them up and down to increase the stretch.

“C’mon, c’mon. Nuff fingers, m’ready, fuckssake…,” complained the lax body beneath him, and then flinched as it was spanked twice on its most cushioned part.

“You’re ready when I’m ready, brother mine.”

Steeling himself to not just come straight away, Mycroft lined up his cock and edged the plump head into Sherlock’s twitching, inviting hole - so beautifully framed by those delightfully pinkened cheeks.

He placed just the tip of his penis inside. The heat and clutching pressure made his vision swim. Steadily he pushed, allowing them both to adjust to the sensation of this most intimate contact.

Their breathing fell into sync, and Mycroft canted his hips slightly upwards to hit the best angle for Sherlock as he entered him. His pelvis jerked almost independently as he thrust in a bit further, a bit harder, with a bit less control. He heard Sherlock’s breath hitch and saw his head turn to the side, mouth agape in pleasure.

But then, then Sherlock thrust himself back, impatient and needy, and he let out a guttural groan as the silky, moist heat of his brother’s passage fully engulfed his throbbing prick.

Sherlock cried out as he was filled. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the bedclothes.

Mycroft began to move with firm, short thrusts, lodged up against Sherlock’s arse, fully seated inside him, pushing and nudging from deep within. Heaven. Bliss.

Sherlock let out a throaty moan of encouragement.

“Grip the headboard, brace yourself,” said Mycroft, in a tone that brooked no nonsense.

Sherlock scrambled to comply, and bent his long, feline form into a submissive stretch.

Without warning Mycroft slammed himself back inside, pounding almost brutally, using the resistance of the headboard to deliver hard and long strokes. Desire thrummed through his groin, up his back, sitting like a weight in his stomach.

Sherlock mashed his face into the pillows, biting and whining incoherently.

Mycroft pulled his brother’s hips up higher and thrust at the angle his muscle-memory had thankfully not forgotten, laying siege to his brother’s exquisitely sensitive prostate. Then he let himself go, and just fucked him ragged.

“ _Mycroft_!” Sherlock all but screamed into the pillow, his deep voice briefly becoming a high tenor.

Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he felt so proud of himself. He felt ten years younger.

“Keep…quiet…” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Sherlock obeyed, and for a while the only sound in the room was the rhythmic bumping of four-poster upon wall; the slapping of skin on skin; beautifully indecent squelches and harsh panting.

Mycroft was mesmerised by Sherlock’s taught but fleshy backside as it wobbled invitingly with each lascivious roll of his groin.

“Tight, so tight…Oh, brother _mine…,_ ” he whispered, his mouth seemingly out of his control. Language reduced to banal description.

Together they rode on a surge of hormones, overwhelmed by the intoxicating chemical rightness of their bond, lost in mutual debauchery.

It was never going to last long.

Sherlock, limp and compliant, had slipped into that unworldly place where he existed only as a receptacle of pleasure.

Mycroft could sense the ratcheting up of climax and raced to scale its height.

“Clench down on me…,” he begged, too far gone to be embarrassed about the mode of expression. He heard an answering grunt from the straining body beneath his, and felt his prick being clamped upon by well-practiced internal muscles.

“Do it, do it!"

With renewed vigour Mycroft gripped his brother’s razor-sharp hips and fucked him ruthlessly, sending electric shocks and near-pain through the nerve endings of his pleasure-centre.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open in a soundless howl, and Mycroft babbled incoherent filth into the air.

“Close. Close. Little fucking slut, gonna come up you, make it run down your legs… Messy boy…”

Then he was over. His mind shattered into fragments. Blood rushed in his ears as he shivered himself undone, pulsing his hot spend into his brother’s willing body with a shocked-sounding cry.

Distracted by his head-spinning orgasm, he was brought back to himself by desperate little whimpers and thrusts as Sherlock attempted to get off in his own hand.

“Pleasepleaseplease!” beseeched the desperate detective, so prettily that Mycroft’s brain clicked back into gear.

Never one to leave a job half done, he pulled Sherlock’s sweaty hand away and wrapped his own firmly around his brother’s burning, slippery cock.

He did not pull out of his arse, but stayed connected as his cock slowly softened, offering gentle, barely-there thrusts to continue stimulating him from inside.

Under usual circumstances, he’d have tried to make Sherlock come through anal play alone - a favourite trick - but one which required more time and less urgency.

“Let me, let me…”

Mycroft pushed with a lack of finesse, forcing his brother's long, slim cock through the circle of his hand repeatedly to build a compulsive, irresistible rhythm.

Sherlock’s pleasure mounted higher and higher, his breath exiting him in a high-pitched, intermittent whine.

When Mycroft felt the tell-tale shudder thrumming through that lithe body and saw the uncontrollable shaking of his thighs, he gave his final command in a dark, sultry voice.  

“Now. Now, sweet boy, come for me now.”

Sherlock groaned from the depths of his gut, and quicker than Mycroft could account for, suddenly reached behind him and up, whipping the loose cravat from round Mycroft’s neck.

Before Mycroft had even registered what was happening, Sherlock had shoved it down to his pulsating cock, and was coming and coming profusely into it, _laughing_ through his aftershocks with glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bit not-sorry about the title of this chapter.


	4. A Final Flourish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, with added deductions.

“You…little….!” Mycroft stammered in outrage as Sherlock rode out his final shuddering muscle contractions into the cumrag that used to be a Savile Row neck accessory.

Mycroft disengaged his spent cock from the gloriously messy arse beneath him, and gazed stupidly down at his giggling brother.

Sherlock, now helpless with hysterics, collapsed onto the bed in joyful release, high on his own mischief, still clutching the ruined silk.

He chucked it at Mycroft, who, entirely on instinct, caught it, regretted it, grimaced and snorted a few low huffs of disgusted amusement.

“You filthy little fucker, Sherlock Holmes!” he exclaimed, throwing the soggy cloth down in revulsion.

He launched himself onto the bed to pin Sherlock facedown beneath him and, as playfully as Mycroft ever did anything, smacked his wiggling bare backside as hard as he could manage.

“Stop it! Ow! I’m not ready to go again that quickly!” giggled Sherlock, between laughter and yelps. 

“Little brat, little horror!”

Tears of mirth streamed down Sherlock’s face, as he tried to fend off the relentless hand. “Oi, that h-hurts! You know I’m very sensitive after I’ve c-come!”

“I’ll give you sensitive, you little beast.”

The hard spanking became tickling and tousling, as the two commenced a highly undignified play-fight.

Eventually the battle ebbed away to a mutual truce, a quick clean-up with the beyond-rescue cravat, and a cuddly aftermath.

A comfortable silence fell.

“That was nice,” said Sherlock, after a while, sounding relieved, and oddly innocent.

“It was, sweetheart. It was,” agreed Mycroft, genially. His eyes began to close in post-orgasmic fatigue.

Sherlock rubbed idly at his sore bum.

“You spank too hard, you monster.”

“I don’t spank hard enough, or you wouldn’t be such a nightmare.”

“Am I a nightmare?”

“Hmm? Yes, completely. You’re also my dream come true, and unfortunately, you know it.”

“Don’t I just? ... You’re mine too, Mycie. Always.”

“Well, that’s all right then.”

They drifted into a contented catnap for a few minutes, until Mycroft suddenly jerked awake, caught by the sickening falling sensation that was his habit during the early stages of sleep.

Sherlock clutched at him and turned momentarily shocked eyes upon him, before instantly relaxing again in his arms.

Mycroft sighed.

“Come on. We can’t fall asleep here. Must return to the land of the living. Well, the living dead anyhow.”

“I hate it.”

“As do I, but there are worse alternatives. Come to the house later? Stay the weekend.”

“You want me to drag myself all the way to Hampstead after this? I’m knackered!”

“You lazy creature.”

“Me?!”

“I think recent events have put paid to any jibes about my indolence for the moment, don’t you?”

“Hmm, yes, you were rather vigorous, as my poor, aching bum can attest.”

“Let me have my way with it again until Monday, will you? I need the exercise.”

“Ooh, if I must.”

“Darling boy, so helpful.”

“Send me a car, I’m not getting the Tube in this heat.”

“I shall. You can tell John I’ve kidnapped you for my own nefarious purposes. Which I have.”

“OK. But I’m choosing the film.”

“Fine, but I’m choosing the menu.”

“Of course you are, you appalling glutton.” Sherlock poked his tongue out, taking the insult out of the words.

Wonders never cease, thought Mycroft. He really must have done a good job today.

He tutted.

“Didn’t hear you complaining earlier, beanpole…”

Sherlock gave him a saucy wink and launched himself off the bed to search for his clothes. He picked up the crumpled waiter costume. Somehow it had ended up beneath them and was in a very sorry state.

“Oh, Sherlock, you can’t go back out in that, it’s absolutely covered…!”

“I agree. Disgusting. I wonder if…”

He sauntered to the wardrobe and opened the door as though expecting a burglar.

“Ah ha!”

Mycroft frowned and then looked at what Sherlock had discovered.

Cold dismay filled his heart.

“Oh, tell me you didn’t!” said Mycroft slowly.

He was staring disbelievingly at Sherlock’s jacket and, presumably, underneath it on the hanger, the rest of his real clothes.

The self-satisfaction emanating from the world’s only naked Consulting Detective was unbearable.

“You’ve been in here already. You deduced which bloody room I’d go into. Of course you did.”

He felt a migraine coming on.

Sherlock began to dress with infuriating casualness.

“Yes, do let me explain..."

“Spare me, I beg you!” exclaimed Mycroft with incipient horror.

“My work began a week ago,” stated Sherlock, matter-of-factly.

“Please. Not a ‘summing up’. Wasn’t I good to you? I made you come, didn’t I?” implored Mycroft, hand over his eyes as if in pain.

Sherlock ignored him.

“Honestly, you think you’re the only one that can roam at will around this horrible place.”

He cleared his throat theatrically. Mycroft groaned as his brother became intolerable.

“After my initial reconnaissance, I knew there were two main corridors leading from the kitchens, and I also knew that you would no doubt wish to remove yourself from the fridge I lured you into. I knew you would inevitably choose the left turning. How? Because you naturally incline that way due to your slightly raised right shoulder – which is stiffer than usual because of all the tedious deskwork and sofa-lounging you’ve been indulging in lately. You believe I haven’t noticed that you overcompensate by using your right side more often in my presence, in an immature attempt to double bluff me about how much it bothers you. Nevertheless, left you dutifully turned, compelled by the physical necessity of getting me into bed. Slipping a bit there, brother.”

Mycroft simply sat with his head in his hands, shaking it dolefully.

Sherlock continued, pacing up and down with all the gravitas his semi-nude state allowed for, rapt in his own courtroom drama. He buttoned his shirt as he spoke.

“I further deduced that three floors was probably as high as someone as averse to stairs as you would bother to go and still feel safe enough away from prying eyes. Inevitably, you would prefer a guest bedroom to anywhere more exciting. By the way, I’d like to have a go in the State Coach next time, please. I think we could break the suspension. It’s parked in the Royal Mews next door, so poorly guarded you will actually, literally, laugh out loud. I digress. As you so rightly said, there are over 700 rooms in the Palace, and by process of elimination, I ended up with a short list of 24 possibilities and then began to whittle them down.”

He span round with a flourish, richly enjoying himself.

“In consulting the staff plans of this floor, I discovered that this is, in fact, marked as Room 42, which I absolutely knew your eidetic memory would have retained, given that you basically know the layout of every important building in the country, and which your quite sensible love of Douglas Adams would not be able to resist. You do need to acquire some less obvious references, brother. Of course, for added security, I influenced your path and direction well in advance – a strategically-placed pot plant here and there, to deter or encourage your choice of turning; a few subconscious signals peppered throughout our earlier exchanges; the odd little cough. _Et_ , as ze Freych say, _voila_!”  

Mycroft heaved a weary sigh and pulled himself up to face his gloating opponent; incongruously smug for a trouserless man.

“Yes, bravo. Gold star. You came up here - when, hours ago, days? - planted your clothes, and waited for me to wander into your dastardly snare and bugger you silly.”

“Hardly a snare. I think you enjoyed yourself, and I’m afraid I was rather silly before you got hold of me.”

“And you’re certain this was the only possible room I could have chosen?”

“Well…no, there are in fact, er, six other rooms with items of my clothing in the wardrobes.”

Sherlock pulled his trousers on rapidly and slipped on his shoes without bothering to replace his socks. Leaving his shirt untucked, he grabbed up his jacket, before steadily backing towards the door.

“Sherlock, don’t you dare…”

Mycroft was getting to his feet, his face like thunder.

Sherlock smirked.

“You have half an hour to find and remove them all, or there will probably be awkward questions asked. Hurry, brother mine. The game is on.”

Mycroft stepped ominously towards him, hands twitching.

With a hurried - “Must dash. See you later. Love you, bye!” - Sherlock bolted from the room to avoid retribution, his shirttails swishing triumphantly behind him.

He raced down the corridor and grinned a Cheshire cat grin as he heard the impassioned roar of outrage behind him - and the very rare yet unmistakable sound of the British Government laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and comments welcome. :)


End file.
